The Bringer of Ashes
by Claywind
Summary: The transformation of his body had been gradual, spanning over the long years of his unhappy childhood. Later, Harry would theorize that it was this slowness that had prevented him from noticing or questioning. Had the changes attracted his attention, however, he would have had to acknowledge that he was not… human.
1. Childhood

**I'm back, people !**

 **I've got around 2 dozens works in progress, mostly in HP and Magi fandoms, but I never felt I could put them on site, because nothing is finished so far.**

 **Screw this! I'm posting my stories. And I hope you'll enjoy** **them!**

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own anything

 **Rating:** T for many things, mostly body horror and minor slash pairings. Rating may go up, but I don't think it will.

 **Chapter 1:** Childhood

The stove incident was the first time Harry started to realize he was different.

He would theorize later, that, in his thirst to be accepted, in his craving to _belong_ with the Dursleys, his subconscious had simply refused to face the truth until that point. It did not mean that he could not notice what was happening around him, but he did not call it into question.

When he was locked in his cupboard, shut away from the outside world, he never wondered how he could always know precisely the moment the sun would set and rise. It was among the obvious things everyone knew and never bothered to talk about, like the shift in temperature between the kitchen and the living room or the acrid scent of bleach when he was scrubbing at the bathroom tile floor.

He never wondered why the constant hunger and thirst stopped clawing at his stomach whenever night fell, and his uncle and aunt went to sleep.

He never wondered why he could see better when there was no light, the deep shadows like a second skin pressing against the walls.

He never wondered why his nails could not be trimmed by scissors or clippers, leaving him to gnaw at them to keep them an acceptable length. His aunt did not let him near the sharp tools anyway. Those were for respectable people, not freaks like him.

He never questioned that aunt Petunia would sneer at him and call him cruel names but gently pat his head, whenever he brushed past her. Neither did he question why his cousin shunned him and made boasts to beat him up, but always renounced his goal at the last second. He never examined why his uncle could angrily throw objects at his head whenever the man needed someone to blame, but never hit him with his fists, no matter the number of times he had threatened to.

It was just how things were and he left it at that.

Until the stove incident burst his bubble of blissful avoidance.

It was a morning like the others. He was cooking breakfast for the Dursleys with, as per usual, his aunt keeping a close eye on him for any attempt to snatch some food from the pan. He was adding a new slice of bacon into sizzling oil, when his cousin barreled into the kitchen with his usual brash carelessness. Dudley rushed passed him, hands aiming for the warm waffles piling on a plate next to the stove… and knocked the stool Harry was standing on.

He lost balance and his momentum knocked the pan away from the burner and into the sink. He landed hands first into the blue gas-fueled fire.

There was a beat, during which he processed the slight pain where he had knocked his knuckles too hard against the metal, before the shrill, horrified cry of his aunt snatched his attention. The shock written on her face smoothly transitioned to disgust and Harry swiftly lowered his eyes…

…Blue flames covered his hands.

It felt warm.

 _Huh,_ he dazedly thought, _my hands are on fire._

He raised his fingers to his face, examining the rippling flames licking his skin. They were slowly reverting to their usual red and orange tint. His nails seemed to be glowing in the shifting fires, like what he suspected heated iron would look like.

"You, monster."

The voice of his aunt brought him back to the present situation.

Shame washed over him, and he turned to the sink to put out the fires. He did not need to, however, as the flames rushed to the tips of his fingers and vanished.

"I'm sorry, aunt Petunia, I…"

"You go to your _place_ , you disgusting little freak!"

More than the promise of punishment gleaming in her eyes, it was the revulsion in her tone that made him bolt for his cupboard. Hearing the heavy steps of his uncle behind him, he almost jumped inside and did not even have the time to turn around that the door was slammed behind him and he was in the dark. He breathed slowly in the cramped space, letting the cool shadows soothe his wildly beating heart and curled on the thin mattress.

The wood of his door muffled the voices, but his aunt and uncle were arguing loud enough for him to understand a few words, ' _freak_ ' and ' _monster_ ' being the most recurrent.

In the thin ray of light given by the half-closed metallic shutters on his door, he observed his hands, wondering why they were not burned.

His nails had darkened. In place of their pale rosy hue, there was now a light ashy grey and, as he noticed when he gnawed at his left thumb's nail that was growing too long, they now held an odd sour taste.

Harry was five. And he was different.

Ω

By the time he was six years old, Harry had realized and accepted that he was fireproof. A discarded lighter at the top of a street-bin – after aunt Petunia had finally let him out of his cupboard to go to school – allowed him to experiment. A week of dedicated night testing led him to realize he could move the fire on his skin and, about three weeks later, he could keep a flame steady in the palm of his hand.

He tried often to create the fire – which would make for a very nice soothing presence in his dark cupboard – and failed every time. A part of him seemed absolutely convinced that he could, and he liked to listen to that voice which always filled him with confidence. Until he could conjure his own fire, however, the lighter was his most prized possession.

When, after a month, the oil fueling it went out, Harry was understandably devastated. That is, until he found out that he could produce flames from the sparks – oil or no oil – allowing his lighter to retain his place of most cherished possession.

Then, came the night of his seventh birthday, and with it, the strangest experience in his life so far.

Even as exhausted as he was by the day's chores, he could not find sleep. He turned and rolled around his thin worn out mattress, tired but restless. There was a constant prickling sensation in his eyes, like tiny worms crawling inside his eye sockets, and horrible pains in his backbone, as if his spine and ribs were splitting from an inside pressure. His scalp burned, especially the top of his head, and his tiny cupboard suddenly felt too cramped, almost suffocating. It was as if there were too many shadows for the small space and he felt them pushing at the confining walls as if to force them apart.

On the following morning, the stairs collapsed under his uncle's weight, neatly annihilating his 'room' in the process. Luckily for him, he was cooking breakfast and the only object that truly mattered to him was in his pocket.

For the duration of the reparation works, he was relocated to Dudley's second bedroom, which his cousin very reluctantly shared with him. As was to be expected, Dudley made sure that all of the old toys were either broken or taken back to his now surcharged bedroom. It did not prevent Harry from liking the new sleeping arrangements very much. When the stairs were back to their pristine condition a few weeks later, he politely – but without much hope – mentioned to his aunt that he did not like sleeping under the stairs and that it made him nervous and agitated.

Petunia never told her nephew, or anyone, that the carpenter had taken her aside and shown her a few planks from the inside part of the devastated staircase, asking, a bit jokingly, if they had kept a frenzied chainsaw-wielding maniac underneath.

Harry only knew that he was allowed to keep his room.

It was only a few months later that he noticed his sight improving. The blurriness induced by the light was slowly receding and, for the first time, he made the connection between the dead leaves on the ground and what up until now had been a fuzzy mass of changing colors on top of the trees trunks. By the time his eighth birthday came around, he no longer needed glasses.

It was around this period, that the Dursleys started acting a lot friendlier towards him. Not only the Dursleys actually, but their change in behavior was the most noticeable. Most adults he crossed on the street nodded in his direction with a smile or said hello to him when had been completely ignored until that point. School was a bit easier – if stranger – and he started being invited to play at break times. The most surreal was that, by the time he was nine, countless of his female – and sometimes male – playmates had offered him flowers, or a candy, or asked to hold hands. One daring little girl even tried to kiss his cheek. Gross.

It took him until he was ten to realize he was the source of these odd behaviors and he worked relentlessly to control his bizarre… aura of friendliness. He quickly learned that it shifted depending on his moods, expanding when he was lonely and shrinking when he felt crowded. He was not really in command of it, but he still had enough control over his own emotions to avoid being swarmed by the whole school.

At home, though, he always managed to feel lonely enough to keep his family contented with him. He did not really want to know if they would go back to being mean to him without his aura.

Despite that slightly unsettling question, life was good.

Then, the letter came.

Ω

 **Creature fic ahead ! I know it's not most people's cup of tea - too many clichés and a**pulls - but I'm trying for something specific, with lots of plot and character interaction.**

 **Any feedback (fair criticism included) will be very much appreciated.**

 **Sincerely,**

 **Claywind**


	2. Letter

**Disclaimer:** I still do not own anything

 **Chapter 2:** Letter

Harry was reading quietly in the garden, sitting in the grass with his back against the tool shed. The oppressing heat of the late afternoon had not deterred Dudley from going to the park to play soccer with his friends, but Harry considered basking in the sun to be a much more appropriate way to spend the day.

When he had begun displaying his preference for direct sunlight, Dudley had nicknamed him 'Lizard', but Harry had learnt long ago not to care much about what was said of him and the intended insult glided over him like water on duck feathers. Besides, the glorious searing light was a delight and realizing that he did not get sunburns was an added bonus that he had rubbed in his cousin's raw and reddened face quite a few times this summer.

He might be miserable in winter, but in summer… in summer, he was a _god_.

The flapping of powerful wings got him out of his daydream. He opened his eyes to find an owl perched on top of the fence, staring at it with the fix intensity that only an eyelid-less bird could muster.

He blinked.

The owl hooted softly and glided to a halt next to his thigh where it cocked his head to the side – still staring unblinkingly at him – and extended a leg in his direction. The fowl's talons looked decidedly sharp enough to tear his legs into tiny bloody bits, but it was the letter carefully rolled and tied around the leg that caught his attention.

He pondered for a while at the bird's impressive balance. The owl hooted again, this time in a rather imperious manner.

"Is… that for me?" Harry asked, feeling a bit silly talking to a bird.

The owl accomplished a magnificent eye roll and hopped on his thigh, still raising his leg with the letter to him.

"I… I'm going to consider that a 'yes', if you don't mind," he said and reached cautiously for the letter.

It was easily unfastened, and he found himself ogling a strange animal-themed emblem pressed in the wax, consisting of a lion, a crow, a snake and a badger. The owl hooted with approbation when it could finally put its leg down, and then flew back to the fence, where it eyed him with a haughty air as if daring him to open the letter.

Harry shrugged and did just that. There were two sheets of paper – although it was not paper but something quite a lot sturdier that looked terribly like very thin leather – inside the envelope. Strange. The text, though, was even stranger:

 _HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY_

 _Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore_

 _(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

 _Dear Mr. Potter,_

 _We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

 _Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Minerva McGonagall,_

 _Deputy Headmistress_

As mentioned in the letter, the second sheet consisted of a detailed list of, well, school supplies, he supposed they were.

He looked back at the owl that was still staring at him, an odd glint of laughter in its yellow eyes.

"Is this a prank?" he asked no one in particular – although if pressed, he would admit to be expecting some sort of reaction from the owl.

Said owl kept staring at him, the hint of amusement turning to certain hilarity.

He had no idea how he knew the bird was inwardly laughing. Refusing to ponder about the difficult questions it raised – the main one being what kind of sense of humor an owl had – Harry cautiously reread the letter.

Uncle Vernon and aunt Petunia had always been adamant that magic did not exist. They could be wrong, of course – they did not know everything he could do with fire, after all, and his aura of friendliness had never been noticed – or they could have been lying. In fact, now that he looked back on it, they had been _extremely_ insistent on the matter of magic not being real, which lent some credence to the second theory. However, apart from Dudley, his relatives tended to not bother lying, so Harry had some trouble believing that they would have hidden something that big. Also, when asked, the teachers at school and other children had always seemed to be of the same opinion: magic did not exist, but it might be nice if it did.

Harry had yet to encounter hard evidence to disprove this claim, and, as awesome as going to a magic school sounded, he found himself wondering if this letter was not an elaborate prank of some sort – although, he doubted that a prankster would go through the troubles of training an owl to deliver correspondence, or even manage to convince one to fly during the day.

Well, he decided with a firm nod of his head, if this was a trick, he was going to fall for it and deal with the prankster later. After all, anyone creative and dedicated enough to come up with this idea deserved their laugh.

He turned back to the grey owl on his thigh, which was still staring at him with a look of aloof jadedness.

"I'm sorry," he asked the bird, "but it says here that I'm supposed to send back an owl. That means a letter, right?"

The grey fowl kept staring in a very noncommittal way that Harry chose to interpret as a yes. Or a shrug, really; there was only so much one could do to interpret the expressions of a bird.

"I see," he said with a shrug of his own. "Can you wait for me to write my reply? I don't know any owl well enough to ask them to carry my letter."

Would it be rude to ask a random bird? For all he knew, owls were sentient creatures. Thankfully, before he could ponder more on the question, the grey fowl hooted once, hopped away from his thigh and flew to the roof of the shed where it began stroking its feathers with an uninterested mannerism.

"I'll take that as a yes," Harry declared, still rolling with it. "Thank you for waiting." He scrambled to his feet. "I'll be back in a few minutes, don't go, alright?"

The owl simply rolled its eyes again and Harry scurried inside looking frantically for a pen and a sheet of paper. When he eventually found them, he bolted back to the garden and was immensely relieved to see the owl still perched on the roof of the tool shed.

He stared at the blank sheet for a while, wondering where to start exactly. He was still not entirely convinced that this was not going to land him in a heap of trouble, but if he was going to bother replying, he was going to reply with style.

"Should I address her as Deputy Headmistress of Mrs. McGonagall?" he asked the owl and received a long stare for only answer.

He settled for combining both to avoid offending her.

He then made a few drafts but ended up crumpling all of them. How did one go about politely asking for proof that magic existed?

In the end, he begged the owl be more patient and ran off to find a dictionary. He did not want to come across as an ignorant child – even though that was mostly what he was at that point – and was rather confident that the little voice at the back of his mind was right when it claimed that proper wording was important if he wanted to get a clear answer to his request. He came back from the house juggling between a very heavy thesaurus and a plate with a few morsels of bacon for the patient bird, who seemed rather pleased with the attention.

When he finally felt his letter was adequately worded – and it had taken at least one hour and a half – he placed it in an envelope and held it to the owl.

Ω

Minerva McGonagall was sitting in her office, sifting through school paperwork, when a large grey owl landed on her desk. The fowl dropped the letter it had been holding in its beak and shot her what could only be described as a haughty stare.

The Deputy Headmistress raised an eyebrow and stared right back with the Scottish aplomb that teaching magical teenagers for decades had refined to the perfect balance.

The grey fowl gave up on the staring contest and took off from the desk, scattering the neat piles of documents to the ground, while startlingly leaving the delivered letter untouched. Minerva restrained the urge to roll her eyes at the school owl's antics – that had been on purpose – and waved her wand at the papers spread all over the floor.

Once her desk had returned to its tidy condition, she turned her attention to the very muggle-looking envelope and smiled softly. She had sent the acceptation letters only the morning before and, while a few purebloods had already sent their reply, it was quite rare to hear back so soon from most muggle-raised half-blood children.

Her gaze dropped back to the pile of letters that were specifically intended for this year's batch of muggleborns. The next two weeks of her schedule were cleared to allow for her visits to the muggle families. She did not look forward to having to explain about the Wizarding World a dozen times over – and having to prove that, yes magic existed to skeptical parents – but it was her duty to do so and she took it extremely seriously.

Besides, she always found some measure of enjoyment whenever she guided starry-eyed eleven years old through Diagon Alley for the first time. On that fond remembrance, she opened the letter and let her gaze quickly skim over the still eminently childish writing – although she could tell that efforts had been made – to look at the signature.

She sputtered in shock.

Then she went back to the beginning and went through the actual content of the letter. It read as such:

 _Dear Mrs. Deputy Headmistress McGonagall,_

 _I was very surprised to receive your letter. I never knew that wizards even actually existed. My aunt and uncle have always been very clear that magic is only children's tale. I am not sure who to believe: them, or this strange letter that your owl delivered me. I have no idea how you trained an owl to fly during the day, so, if it's a prank, it's very well done._

 _But if it's not, and if I have really been accepted into your school to learn magic, then I, personally, accept the offer, but I am going to have some problems to convince my aunt and uncle to let me learn magic if they believe it doesn't exist._

 _Also, I don't know where to find such things as a wand, a cauldron or dragon hide gloves (are they made of real dragons?). I don't believe the libraries around my home will have any of the books mentioned in your list. And, I'm pretty sure I don't have enough money to afford it all and I don't think my aunt and uncle will agree to pay for it._

 _Would it be possible to schedule a meeting with you (or any other member of the faculty) to explain the situation to my family and help me find my school supplies?_

 _I would be truly grateful for your help._

 _Sincerely yours,_

 _Harry Potter_

 _PS: Your owl is very pretty. What's his or her name? I gave him/her bacon, is that alright?_

She mentally smacked herself for her oversight. Young Potter was not a muggleborn by his lineage, but, for all intents and purpose, he should be prepared as one during his first steps in the magical world.

She thought about going to Albus with the matter – as he had been the one to insist that growing up with his relatives would be more beneficial to the child than whatever foster family who would have happily adopted the 'Savior of the Wizarding World' – but she eventually decided not to bother him with it.

She had a conveniently almost free afternoon in just a few days – right after her scheduled meeting with a certain Miss Granger, in fact – so she would start with the young witch and follow with Potter from there.

That seemed like a reasonable plan. She quickly penned her answer to the child and, before she could even place the envelope on her "to send" pile, a hoot from her opened window informed her that the large grey owl had returned and was staring at her with an imperious air.

She chuckled and beckoned the intimidating bird over.

"I don't suppose you intend to become Mr. Potter's entitled mail-carrier?" she asked with a half-sarcastic, half-amused tone.

The owl rolled its eyes and snatched the envelope from her hand before storming away in a flurry of grey feathers and newly scattered papers.

Minerva McGonagall frowned. More chaos from the darned bird.

She really hoped that grey owl was not an omen of the school year to come.

Ω 

**More story ! Pretty short chapters so far. Hope you're enjoying. Don't hesitate to comment!**


	3. Diagon Alley

**Nope, not owning any rights here.**

 **Chapter 3:** Diagon Alley

Explaining to Aunt Petunia that the Deputy Headmistress of a school was going to visit next Friday was relatively easy. Elaborating that said Deputy Headmistress was a witch was, on second thought, probably not his brightest move.

Harry was sitting on the bed of Dudley's second room that was now his, his gaze travelling from the locked door – he was grounded for telling lies – to the small wristband-lacking digital watch on the side of his bed. Once again, he re-read the small piece of too-thick-to-be-paper informing him that Minerva McGonagall would be arriving at one o'clock which was only ten minutes from now.

'12:51' the discarded watch indicated when he looked at it after scanning the stains and dents on the wall for the umpteenth time. He knew them by heart.

Once more, he checked the door, glanced at the window and looked back at the red digits taunting him. He glared at them and sparked his lighter.

He caught the spark with practiced ease, willing the smallish flame into existence and focused on it until it was the size of an egg in his palm. He threw it up and deftly caught it with his left hand. He threw it back and forth a few times, then separated the fire egg into two smaller flames that he grew again. He glanced at the wrist watch – 12:54 – and tried juggling the balls. He almost dropped one and switched to something less hazardous. Fusing the two burning shapes once more, he spread the newly reformed "egg" on the back of his left hand and began coating his forearm in a layer of flames.

The process was complicated, and he had never been able to maintain it for more than a few minutes, but he supposed that, like with all the rest of his fire powers, training would make everything easier.

The doorbell rang, and he started. He looked at the watch – 13:00 – and shook his head in amusement. As usual, the flames rushed to his fingertips to vanish, and he got to his feet. Tiptoeing to the door, he crouched to press his ear against the keyhole.

The muffled sounds of a feminine voice were suddenly drowned by his aunt's angry tone and Harry grimaced at some of the words used. He hoped he was not going to be held responsible for it. The rising flow of insults abruptly stopped, and the feminine voice spoke again, too softly for Harry to hear her words.

Then, there was the creaking of the fifth stair step and the sound of someone approaching his room. He got up and took a few steps back as the door handle rattled and a voice, with a heavy Scottish accent shot an offended question – "You _locked_ him up?" – presumably to his aunt still downstairs.

A light erupted from the keyhole and the door opened to reveal an elderly tall woman, with a strict bun of grey hair, a thin stick in her hand and an ankle length tartan skirt.

She looked at him, then at his room, and back at him, her eyes travelling up and down his small form and cast-off clothes. He noticed a flicker of anger in her eyes before her expression smoothed down to something between affable and professional.

"Young Mr. Potter, I presume?"

"Um, yes, ma'am," he answered with a nod. "You're the Deputy Headmistress?"

"That is correct. I am Minerva McGonagall. You may call me professor."

"Yes, ma'a-…professor. Sorry."

"That's quite alright," she replied with a small smile and looked around. "Is that your room?"

"Yes, professor. Do you… want to sit down?" he asked before remembering he did not have a chair and waving imprecisely in his bed's general direction.

"That's quite alright Mr. Potter," she declared, although her clipped tone led Harry to believe that it was not 'quite alright'. "This is most certainly not your fault." Harry watched her take a deep breath. "Now, I believe you said in your letter that you never heard of the Wizarding World?"

He nodded.

"Um, that's correct, professor. Never heard of magic at all."

"Well, in that case, the first thing to do is usually a demonstration." She raised the thin wooden stick presented it to his eyes. "This, Mr. Potter, is called a wand. It is one of the items you will be asked to purchase for school and is usually considered the most important part of a wizard's equipment. The wand is a conduit for your magic and the great majority of the spells you will learn can only be cast with one."

She pointed the wand at the head of his bed and his pillow turned into a fluffy white rabbit that looked around with a very stunned expression. Harry approached the creature with caution and patted his hand on the soft fur of its back.

"Wow!" he exclaimed when the rodent hopped away from his hand. "That's a real bunny! How did you do that?"

She smiled, and Harry was sure that she was about to reply along the lines of 'magic, duh'.

"This was a Transfiguration," she explained instead, "the art of reshaping matter into something else. It is the subject that I teach and is, as you can guess, extremely useful."

Reshaping matter, Harry thought. That sounded like a really nifty power to have. She waved her wand and the rabbit was a pillow again. Harry contained his disappointment and placed the pillow back at the head of his bed. When he turned back to the Professor, she was looking at a round golden pocket watch with pinched lips.

"Mr. Potter, I believe it is time we go buy your supplies."

"I, um… I don't have any money, Professor."

She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture.

"Of course, you do. Your parents left you all of their belongings, and quite a hefty sum, in their will."

Among the cautious bubbling of hope, a doubt crept in his mind.

"And that money," he asked cautiously, "is in a bank?"

She arched a dignified eyebrow.

"Why yes, it's in Gringotts. Where else would it be?"

His hopes were instantly drowned under a metaphorical cold shower. Any money left in a bank would have been already drained away by his aunt to pay for Dudley's extravagant gifts.

"Um," he warned her softly when she waved him into the corridor, "there's probably not much left."

"And why would that be, Mr. Potter? Have you gone to Gringotts to retrieve money in the past?"

"No, but my aunt…

"Mr. Potter," she interrupted him and waited until he had stopped staring at the floor. "Gringotts is a Wizarding bank and the vault is to your name. No one but you can retrieve anything from the Potter Vault, not even your guardians. If you never went to Gringotts, it is safe to assume that everything is still there. If there is one thing that the Goblins can be trusted with, it's that no one steals from them and walks out to tell the tale."

He slowly nodded. That was… good to know.

"Additionally, Mr. Potter, Hogwarts has a fund for impoverished students. No magical child will be denied an education because of financial difficulties, I can assure you." She extended her hand to him with a solemn expression. "Now hold on tight. I am going to apparate us to Diagon Alley."

Just before she did, however, she turned towards him with a concerned glint in her eyes.

"Oh, I almost forgot to ask. Mr. Potter, have you eaten recently?"

"Um, no Professor."

"Good."

Ω

Retching on the pavement of a narrow back alleyway was not what he would have expected to be his first experience of the Wizarding World.

Their expedition improved famously when his Professor magicked the foul taste away and handed him small sandwiches that had been prepared for him at Hogwarts. Then, they started walking in Diagon Alley itself and, soon, Harry had all but forgotten the puddle of bile left next to the entrance of a dusty little shop called "Pheles & Athan's Ritual Materials".

Professor McGonagall first led him to Gringotts, an almost-collapsing building – that apparently was not collapsing at all – where he learnt that Goblins were a bit scary, but very polite. In fact, they smiled to him quite a lot, showing their sharp and numerous teeth, which made him distinctly uncomfortable and, taking his courage in both hands he told a passing goblin that their smiles were very intimidating.

There were even more smiles directed his way after that, so Harry wisely shut up and sat in an iron cart with a strangely pinched-lips Professor McGonagall. He was about to ask if she was feeling ill when the cart suddenly sped through the thick darkness of tortuous caves at ridiculous speeds and sharp turns that left his stomach in his throat.

It was wonderful.

They eventually stopped, and Harry pretended not to notice the way the Professor wobbled on her legs when they got out of the cart.

He turned to their goblin guide and exclaimed his approval of their transport system, to which he was answered with the widest – and most unsettling – smile of the day.

Ω

He had money.

Harry was still reeling from the shock when they left Gringotts. He had money, and no one had ever told him. Well, he amended, the Dursleys probably did not know, so he could not blame them, and they would not have let him use it anyway, so things were most likely better the way they were.

Besides, he had a pouch full of gold and was on his way to buy a wand, so nothing could dampen his enthusiasm.

Well, the creepy wand maker did dampen it a bit but, toughened by his recent goblin exposure, Harry remained valiantly composed against the eerie remarks and foreshadowing comments of Ollivanders.

Armed with a brand-new wand – of which the core was twin to one belonging to a Dark Lord who had done great-but-terrible things – Harry faced the rest of the Alley with renewed confidence. He patiently endured the horrors of being fitted for clothes he did not know how to wear, and wisely chose to keep his investment in the matter to the strict minimum of the three black robes and one winter cloak required for the year. Then, he was led to the apothecary and instructed to buy his cauldron and potion ingredients while his Professor retrieved his school books from the library across the street.

Finding the right potion ingredients on his own proved to be less of a challenge than he had anticipated. The clerk simply handed him the 'Hogwarts first year package', which smelled extremely bad, and the sale was done. Harry decided to buy another one in case he ran low on ingredients. Who knew when he would be able to come back to the apothecary?

Professor McGonagall returned a few minutes later, holding a lot of interesting additional books, which she had insisted were essential he read before the start of the term, as they would give him a more thorough understanding of magical society. There was also a thick tome – _Tales of Beedle the Bard_ – wrapped in a golden ribbon and given to him as an early birthday present.

When they passed in front of the book shop, the number of wizards cramped inside told Harry that his Professor had not simply wanted to keep her present a surprise, but also to prevent him from being trampled by the busy crowd.

It was very thoughtful of her.

Harry had no idea that Minerva McGonagall had placed a Notice-Me-Not charm on him and his scar and that she had been careful to never call him by his name. To her eyes, there was really no need to subject an eleven-year-old child to the riot his fame would certainly provoke if words got out that _Harry Potter_ was in Diagon Alley right now. No, Minerva was of the firm conviction that someone's first experience in the bustling magical district should be private and undisturbed.

Which was why she had resolved to avoid the Leaky Cauldron and its tactless barman like the plague.

And since they had done the visit in a timely manner – she should remember to use the Notice-Me-Not more: nothing was more time-consuming than being constantly called to chat with every witch or wizard whom she had taught – she allowed Harry to drag her to a high-class trunk shop that mostly catered to purebloods.

Ω

Harry wanted a trunk that no one would snoop in and the clerk – a bony, dark haired man with an overly courteous smile – assured him they had everything he wanted, as long as he could afford it. The last words had been said with a subtle disapproving glance to the too big and worn cast-offs from Dudley that Harry wore on him.

Despite his poor appearance, the wizard had shown him around the shop, explained the different features – all very pricy – he could add to a trunk and answered each of his questions with polite precision.

Harry was pretty sure that his aura of friendliness had kicked in at some point.

Nice to know it worked on wizards too.

When Harry pointed to a dark burgundy trunk in a corner that the clerk had been carefully avoiding, he was told that, no, this one was not for sale, unless he could actually keep it.

As any self-respecting eleven-years-old would, faced with such an intriguing answer, Harry investigated further and was treated to the weird tale of the trunk's creation.

Apparently, the item was a taunt from Thaumathius Sentrine – the original founder of the shop – to his son and apprentice at the time. The trunk was keyed to the shop and would teleport back to its corner no matter what banishment charms were used to dispose of it. Any attempt to destroy the trunk would be deterred by its magic-repelling dragon hide and there was no way to move it away from its chosen spot, as it could apparently hold on to the floor itself. Add to the fact that no one could open it without risking his fingers to be bitten – yes, the white indentions were dragon teeth, no, he did not know why his great-grandfather had thought it a good idea to give sharp teeth to a chest – and the monstrous trunk had become part of the shop.

The Sentrine son and grandson had reacted to the taunt by deciding to give the trunk for free to anyone who managed to open it without a more serious wound than a scratch and then see how long the trunk took to come back.

Of course, Harry wanted to try opening it, which, of course, McGonagall fervently discouraged. She was eventually convinced by Sentrine to let the child try his luck, since the shopkeeper had plenty of experience with healing bite wounds. One had to wonder exactly how much experience.

So, Harry walked to the trunk and cautiously approached his hand from the lid. The red scaled thing started growling menacingly and – with the habit born from hours of practice – Harry managed to convince himself that he felt very lonely and sad, so sad that the trunk did not want to be his friend.

The growl lowered to a purr.

Ω

"That was very nice of him to do the additional wards for free, don't you think, Professor?"

Minerva McGonagall pursed her lips in a thin smile.

"I believe he was concerned that you would unleash that monster upon him and his shop."

"That's silly," Harry retorted with a chuckle, "how could I do that?"

"The thing does seem to follow your orders," she replied curtly, glancing at the red monstrosity trotting behind Harry on four stubby scaled legs. With claws. "It would not be so far-fetched."

"I wonder if I should give it a name… Do you think it's a boy or a girl?"

She pondered for a second. The trunk did have something resembling a lizard anatomy (mind you, a very rectangular lizard), minus a head and a tail. It was made from dragon parts and enchanted to act like an animal, but was it alive? Could it _breed_?

She shuddered.

"I would rather not have to know the answer to that question, Mr. Potter. Please refrain from mentioning the subject ever again."

Harry complied with a polite nod and they were on their way.

Ω

All in all, Harry left Diagon Alley with wonderful memories, a huge grin and a wicked trunk.

Ω

"Levi! Levi! Look what I found!"

Levi raised her eyes from the dhampyr blood samples she was reordering on the back-shop shelves to glance over her shoulder at her associate. Mephisto was grinning like a loon and brandishing a glass vial containing a semi-transparent liquid of some sort.

"What's that," she mumbled, her eyes returning to the dozens of neatly aligned bottles of blood, "and who swindled you into buying it?"

"I didn't buy it," Mephisto chirped cheerfully and placed the vial on the table in the center of the room. "It was lying in a neat little puddle next to our door step."

She looked at him, trying to summon an exasperated glare, but this kind of situation was just too frequent with Mephisto, so she gave up. With a sigh, she left her shelves and approached the table to examine the strange substance that looked definitely like the result of someone vomiting on an empty stomach.

Considering the Alley's apparition point was quite near, this was a sight she had grown used to.

"So, you have some witch or wizard's puke," she grumbled with some semblance of enthusiasm. "I guess you can curse whoever it is who stained our threshold. It's a half moon tonight, so laurel, myrrh and hippogriff feathers should be enough."

"No, you don't get it!" her partner protested. "It's not puke, it's bile! Nephilim bile!"

She paused.

"You're kidding."

His eyes, shining with manic glee, told her he was not. How he knew did not matter – identifying stuff was Mephisto's talent, like pricing it and bargaining was hers – what mattered was that he would not joke on the matter of ingredients coming from a nephilim.

"You know what that means," she said in a hushed whisper, almost afraid to be overheard.

He nodded, an elated gleam in his eyes.

"Power."

Ω

 **The plot thickens ! Next is Hogwarts and some decidedly odd ... friendships ?**


	4. To Hogwarts

It's chapter 4 and I still don't own any rights to the HP fandom. Shame.

 **Chapter 4:** To Hogwarts

Harry spent the remaining of his summer reading his textbooks – which would have been seriously boring had the subject not been magic – and even attempted a few potions, since he did not need a wand to brew. None of his first attempts turned out satisfactory but he supposed that was only natural, since he had not even had a class yet.

He found himself very smug to have had the foresight to buy more than the required amount of ingredients and kept experimenting until he thought he had finished around half of his first potion kit. He wanted to have enough to last a bit more than the whole school year.

By this point, his potions were definitely not perfect, but they were still much better than his sorry first tries. At least, their smell roughly fit what they were supposed to be. The colors were not quite there yet.

He also established that his trunk was male and decided to give him a name. Had he been allowed around books more often, Harry might have gone with a famous mythological name, like Fafnir, Brinsop, Medea or Níðhöggr.

As things stood, he settled for Chomp.

When August 31st finally rolled around, Harry was deposited by his grumbling uncle on the road in front of King's Cross Station, Chomp trotting faithfully behind him without anyone batting an eyelid at him.

Professor McGonagall's instructions had been sufficiently clear for him to find his way to platform 9 ¾ and – after a very distressing jump through solid stone – he soon found himself sitting quietly in an empty compartment at the head of the shining red _Hogwarts Express_.

He spent most of the ride looking at the scenery. His peace was disturbed a few times by random students looking for a place to sit. He would not have minded the company but, as soon as their eyes landed on the luggage carrier, they all politely excused themselves and closed the door.

Weird.

Ω

Severus Snape was adding the last finishing touches to an experimental sun protecting salve – vampires were ready to pay a lot of money to go around during the day – when a small chime went off, informing him that someone was approaching his quarters.

He glanced at the clock – he was not late for the feast – and frowned when the wards around his office door alerted him to the presence of a Hogwarts teacher. He still had a good twenty minutes before the beginning of the feast and he _really_ hoped Albus had not decided to drop by for a chat, as he was prone to do these times of the year. There was only so much eye-twinkling goodwill he could bear.

He placed his delicate potion under a Stasis charm and strode to the door, his scowl firmly in place to greet whoever thought it appropriate to disturb his last minutes of peace before the arrival of the new yearly batch of dunderheads.

"What is it?" he barked while slamming the door open.

The mousy cry and disheveled appearance heralded one Sybil Trelawney, and he raised a curious eyebrow. The crazy witch who had taken the post of Divination teacher never descended to the dungeons – which were 'hindering her Sight', or some other trite excuse to hide the fact that the place scared her – so her presence in front of his quarters was more than a bit odd.

"Ah, Severus," she whispered once she had regained her composure, "I Saw that Albus needed you, thus I came to fetch you before anyone could be delayed…"

Distracted as he was by the high-pitched faraway tone, Severus translated that the headmaster had sent her note to drop by and make sure he would not forget the feast. He scowled. Did Albus really not think he could make it on time? When had he ever been late?

Perhaps the old wizard took joy in forcing Severus to endure Sybil's grating presence. How uncharacteristically sadistic of him.

"Quite… thoughtful of you," he drawled and stepped out of his quarters, a sneer in his voice. "Let us not dither, then. We do not want the vampire bats to attack, now."

"V-vampire bats?" Her chuckle was obviously forced and nervous. "Surely you jest, Severus."

He gave her his best serious look and strode off in a billowing of black robes, feeling somewhat avenged when she hurried to catch up with his quick strides.

"There can't be vampire bats at Hogwarts," she muttered more to herself than him, for which he was grateful. "It's too far north, unless they're enchanted? Charmed against the cold? What about the climate, shouldn't… _HE IS NEAR…_ "

Severus froze mid-step.

He knew that voice; that thrice damned voice of the Seers, just as he knew that, if he turned back to Trelawney, he would find only misty whiteness in her eyes.

" _HE IS NEAR_ ," the voices repeated, as they poured out of their conduit, " _HE WILL TAME THE BURNING BEAST AND SWAY THE HOLLOW SHADES…_ _HE WILL DECEIVE THE KING OF SNAKES AND SHATTER THE ESSENCE OF LIFE…_ "

Slowly, he forced his muscles to obey him and turned towards the Seer. It took all of his will to take a single step back at the familiar face that had become suddenly eerily alien.

" _HE IS NEAR…_ "

Part of him was scared at the very idea of making a sound. The weight of the voices was crushing him, and he wanted to run, away, far away, and quiver in a corner, and tear his ears off to repel the words. Had it been that terrifying, when he had overheard the first prophecy, a decade ago?

He could not remember.

" _HE WILL UNLOCK THE GATE AND TEAR APART THE VEIL… HE WILL MAKE TRUTH A LIE AND STAKE HIS CROWN FOR A SOUL…_ "

He could not remember but, perhaps, the weight had been the same, only this time, he was the only one intended to bear the words of the Fates.

" _HE IS NEAR, THE BLIGHT, THE TRICKSTER, THE WOUND IN THE WORLD…_ "

There was no one else to carry the burden. He was alone.

" _THE BRINGER OF ASHES IS NEAR…_ "

Ω

Magic boats were awesome.

Though, and Harry might be biased by his first experience, everything related to magic was awesome.

It seemed he was not the only one to think so, as, of the three other occupants of the boat, only a round faced boy cradling a toad seemed less thrilled than he was. Of the two others, a bushy-haired girl was attempting to look everywhere at once, her brown eyes lit with intense curiosity, and a dark-skinned boy was staring at the dark waters with the brooding look of a tragic hero.

When a gigantic castle came into view, however, all four occupants of the boat had the exact same expression of pure awe at the gothic agglomeration of towers that stood in dark contrast with the moonlit night sky.

"That's Hogwarts!" the girl exclaimed and, after taking a deep breath, she started spouting facts about the castle, its architecture, history and importance, which was both annoying and interesting. The speed of her delivery made it slightly difficult to understand what she was saying, and Harry stopped paying attention after a few minutes to refocus on the contemplation of the slowly approaching castle.

The dark-skinned boy, whose brooding glare had shifted to the still-speaking girl, eventually got annoyed enough to request in scathing yet somehow polite tones that she 'please refrain herself from further disrupting the serenity of the moment'.

That effectively silenced her, and the two of them entered a glaring contest that, if Harry had to guess, was going to be won by the boy.

Before their developing animosity could brew further, the round-faced boy, who had been quietly fumbling with his toad, turned towards him and shyly introduced himself as one Neville Longbottom. This started the presentations and they were soon shaking hands – or attempting to crush each other's fingers in the case of the two still-glaring ones – one Blaise Zabini and Hermione Granger. Harry took advantage of their distraction to peer at Neville, who had been quick-witted enough to change the subject of the conversation. Or perhaps he was just curious.

Whichever it was, Harry was glad for the diversion and, after having dealt with the double takes his name caused, he peacefully enjoyed the rest of his ride while Granger and Zabini resumed their glaring contest.

Ω

Their group of first years was left to wait in an antechamber of some sort. Listening to the worried whispers of a red-headed boy near the side of the group, Harry quietly snorted when a troll fight was mentioned. Who would let a bunch of eleven-year-olds fight a troll? It was obviously a prank.

Right?

He turned to Neville – ignoring Zabini and Granger who had entered the third round of their glaring contest – and quietly asked about the Sorting ceremony, to which the round-faced boy replied that he would have to put on a magic talking hat and that should be all.

Comforted by the answer, Harry was about to fall back to his silent musing, when the door opened, and professor McGonagall ushered them in the great hall.

Harry fell into step with Neville, feeling a bit nervous and very excited. From four long tables, almost all of the students had their eyes on them and he could not help feeling a little bit self-conscious.

Professor McGonagall made them stop a dozen feet before a raised platform onto which there was a stool, which itself supported a rather worn looking hat.

Which started to sing.

Harry was barely recovering from the song – and trying to analyze which house he would end up in – when the first name was called, and the sorting began. He clapped politely for a newly-minted Hufflepuff named Hannah Abbot and idly looked over the different tables. Everyone seemed nice enough.

He was surprised when Granger went to Gryffindor. From what he had observed during their short boat ride, she seemed more a bookworm than a brave warrior, but he supposed you could not judge people by their appearance.

Neville went to Hufflepuff, and Harry cheered him as the round-faced boy went to sit at his table, receiving a shy smile in return.

A few more names went on until he was called up, and many people started whispering animatedly. He noticed a few pointing at him and wondered what the hell this was all about. The others' sorting had not garnered such a reaction from the students.

Shrugging it off as another wizard-thing, he walked to the stool and let McGonagall put the huge old hat on his head.

" _Oh my, look at that,_ " a voice intoned from inside the hat. " _This is going to be quite amusing._ "

Well. That explained why most children had flinched when they had put the thing on their head.

"Um, hello?" he whispered. "I'm sorry, but what is going to be amusing?"

" _Hello, child,_ " the Hat replied. " _I was referring to your Sorting._ "

Guessing that everything was perfectly normal, Harry decided to respond with his new foolproof reaction to weird things: rolling with it.

"And why is my Sorting amusing, if I may ask?"

" _You certainly may._ "

There was a definitive chuckle coming from somewhere near the crown of his hair and Harry decided to avoid thinking about the peculiarities of headwear anatomy.

" _Without even knowing you yet,_ " the Hat eventually elaborated, " _most assume you already belong to the Lion's den._ "

"Really?" he asked, skeptically. "Who's 'most'? And why would they make assumptions like that?"

" _Gryffindor is the house your parents called their own. Many think you will, or should, follow in their footsteps._ "

From the bits he had read and what Professor McGonagall had told him, Harry did not think it a really wise choice to follow in the footsteps of people who had died in their twenties by actively fighting against a wizard much more powerful than them.

"Aren't houses supposed to be about personality?" he asked instead of voicing this thought. "I don't see how my parents being Gryffindors means I'll be one too. Especially since I don't even know them."

" _You are correct,_ " the hat replied, " _and yet, you will find that some families are often tied to certain Houses. And some would see it as a tragedy, even a disgrace, to be sorted elsewhere._ "

Harry shrugged. Maybe it was a wizard thing. He peered at the Gryffindor table. They seemed nice enough and the color scheme was not that bad. It reminded him of fire and that was always a good thing. Besides, professor McGonagall was familiar, and she had told him she would be very happy and proud to be his Head of House…

"I don't want to disappoint anyone," he started slowly, "maybe I should-…"

" _I will not Sort you to the wrong House,_ " the Hat interrupted him, " _not even to please an old grouse._ "

Harry briefly wondered at the sudden rhyming, but it probably did not matter much in the grand scheme of things.

"So," he asked instead, "I can't go to Gryffindor?"

" _You have courage, maybe enough,_ " the Hat replied with a tone that certainly tried to sound very grand, " _but you possess too much finesse to fit in the House of Bluntness. Many secrets, maybe too much, to call it home and feel as such. Your shadows bared in Gryffindor, would mark you as an outsider. You need a house without bias for what is seen a dark stigma._ "

Harry cocked his head to the side in confusion, precariously tilting the Hat in the process. He took a few seconds to translate the abrupt rhyming, before asking:

"Shadows? Dark stigma? What do you mean?"

" _Magic can be Dark, Grey or Light. And your kinship lies with the night._ "

Thinking on how he could use the shadows to feel his way around in the dark, Harry admitted that the Hat had a point.

" _Now let me see… the Eagle's nest seeks truth and fact. They would not judge one of their own, but would you fit? It is less sure. You do not thirst much for knowledge beside what you can gain from it. Again, that would make you an outcast in your own House._ "

"Okay," Harry grumbled, with the feeling this sorting-thing was going to take some time. "What's next?"

" _In the Snake's pit, dwell the cunning, the ambitious who seek power. Secrets are kept by Slytherin. You would thrive there, among your peers._ "

"Well that seems like a good place."

" _Yes. If not for your name, you would fit._ "

"What's wrong with my name?"

" _Many Slytherins will see you as the Light Savior, an enemy of the House that has embraced the Darkness of magic. Proving them wrong would not be easy and you would walk a very thin line between your House and your school._ "

"Alright… so, the last one is Hufflepuff, right? Can I go there?"

" _Loyal and hard-working, you certainly are. But the Badger's sett would look at you with fear._ "

"Okay," he grumbled, rolling his eyes, "so, there's nowhere I can go?"

" _Quite the contrary, three Houses are open to you. In Gryffindor, you would be prized, but a misstep would outcast you. In Slytherin you would find kin but have to win their high esteem. In Hufflepuff, you would be safe, but lonely amongst scared strangers._ "

"And I'm not enough of a bookworm for Ravenclaw."

" _You lack the thirst that unite them._ "

"So, where will you put me?"

" _Students fit for more than one House are by custom allowed to choose._ "

"Oh. Nice. Well, it seems that, apart from Hufflepuff, I'll have to prove myself and be careful no matter where I go, so, if I take your warnings into account, it's really a no-brainer."

" _Are you sure?_ "

He nodded firmly.

"Yes, as long as you did not lie about me thriving there."

" _I never lie. And I suppose you had better be SLYTHERIN!_ "

Ω

 **And this is where the already written chapters stop. We're entering unknown territory, lads !**


	5. Alliances

**I don't own nuthin' !**

 **Chapter 5:** Alliances

"SLYTHERIN!"

The anxious silence in the Great Hall was shattered by a flood of hushed whispers.

Filius Flitwick glanced to his side, where Severus was quietly choking on his wine, and clapped politely at the new student.

The child slid off the stool and gave the Hat to Minerva – who looked a tad less composed than she usually was – and then walked to the green table, where he was met with quite a few disbelieving stares and a few glares, from some of the elder students.

Filius frowned. Such outright hostility from within the house was never a good sign. He was too often confronted with bullying in Ravenclaw to not know the warning signs. He turned to Severus, intent on finding whether the man had noticed – and what he planned to do about it – but the Potion Master was glaring at the Slytherin table, most specifically the first-year section, and Filius felt something like unease creep up his spine.

"Everything alright, Severus?"

The wizard shot him a startled look and seemed to finally come back to his sense.

"Yes," Severus drawled. "All is fine. I was merely… surprised."

Filius narrowed his eyes but decided not to call the Potion Master on his blatant lie.

Staff discussions this last week of summer had made Severus' dislike of the Potter boy very clear. That the man was now the boy's Head of House was worrying, especially if, as Filius was guessing, the Potion Master was not going to be able to put his bias aside.

A Head of House was supposed to act as a parental figure for the duration of the school year. Filius looked out for his eagles, made sure that everything was alright, advised and reassured them when they needed it, as did Minerva for her lions, Pomona her badgers, and Severus his snakes.

But if that one snake was unable to find shelter in his Head of House, Filius would have to offer his own protection.

He wanted to ask Severus to treat the boy fairly but had a feeling that drawing attention to the man's prejudices, when he had not yet done anything to the child – except sending a mild glare at the table – would pose more problems than it would solve.

He was going to keep an eye on the situation. If the Potion Master shirked his duties, then he would intervene. But, who knew, maybe Severus would surprise them all.

Ω

Blaise Zabini was waiting for and ancient artifact of unknown power to make up its damn mind.

He had expected the Hat to send Potter to Gryffindor with the same speed it had sent Malfoy to Slytherin, but that had not been the case. Now the hall was waiting in a silence that was becoming more and more tense by the minute. He was getting impatient, nervous even, but forced himself not to fidget like the redhead at his side. Probably a Weasley.

Blaise glanced at the Gryffindor table, replying to Granger's glare in kind, then at the Hufflepuffs, where Longbottom shyly answered his nod, and back at the Hat on Potter's head.

Mother had always been very clear that he was to choose his friends wisely. Friendships started at Hogwarts often lasted long into adulthood, opening many doors that would have been otherwise closed.

Blaise was clever, cunning and resourceful. He knew he was bound for Slytherin.

Oh, his loyalty and work ethics might send him to Hufflepuff, which, he supposed, would be another way to secure a valuable friendship. Longbottom had seemed decent enough. Should it be the case, he would not have too many regrets.

From what Mother had told him, the snake pit was a high-stake dance, where the smallest misstep could send the floor collapsing under your feet. But the _thrill_ , she had said with that cold smile that could make grown men quake in their boots, the thrill made it all worth it.

He was excited to learn the game… but also incredibly wary.

"SLYTHERIN!"

Wrenched from his musings, Blaise looked up in time to see Potter get up, give the Hat back to Professor McGonagall and head to the Slytherin table.

Glancing there, Blaise noticed that the reactions were mitigated. Some upper years held their head high with a smug look that stated _'why, yes, we saw that coming, and not you'_ , while others were shooting dark looks at their new housemate, who was noticing and gradually slowing his advance, looking more and more apprehensive, until he found an empty spot at the far end of the table.

While the Sorting proceeded with an Oliver Rivers – "HUFFLEPUFF!" – Blaise kept spying on the snakes' table.

The Slytherins were shunning Potter. It was nothing blatant, the glares had subsided, in fact, no one was looking at the boy sitting at the far end of the table. Potter was hunched on himself, looking miserable, and something cold and angry coiled in Blaise's stomach.

Potter was obviously not prepared to play the game.

Everything seemed to crystallize, as Blaise realized the opportunity that had just landed in his lap. His plans for Hufflepuff fell to the wayside.

High risks and higher rewards versus loyal friendship?

He was a Zabini. He would make sure to have both.

"Blaise Zabini?"

He looked up, startled, and noticed he was the last unsorted student. With an embarrassed mental facepalm, he made his way to the stool and sat.

" _Oh, well, you seem to have done my work for me._ "

"I beg your pardon?"

" _You have it, SLYTHERIN!_ "

He blinked. That had gone faster than expected. But he was not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he stood, handed back the Hat, made his way to the Slytherin table and pointedly sat next to Potter.

"Hello again," he said, turning to the boy with a small smile. Warm, but not too overt. It would not do to seem to forward in his offer for alliance.

"H-hello Blaise!" the other replied with a relieved smile, and Blaise winced at the breach in etiquette. You did not use someone's first name upon first meeting them, especially around old purebloods lines who cared a lot more about decorum than the regular wizard. A quick glance at the nearest students and, yep, they had heard the blunder, if the frowns directed at Potter – and himself – were any indication.

 _Rebuke him and I weaken this alliance. Let it stand and I lose credibility among the old lines in the house. How do I use this?_

"So, Harry," he said, deliberately ignoring the elder Slytherins' attention, "What do you think of Hogwarts so far? Is it to your liking?"

 _I'm a Zabini,_ he thought in their direction, _I wouldn't breach custom. Obvious conclusion is that Potter and I are close._

His bluff seemed to work, and the elder students went back to their own conversations. He allowed himself a small sigh of relief. That had been close. But Mother had been right.

What a thrill, and it was only the beginning.

Though his first priority would be to sit Potter with a book on proper wizarding etiquette, because his bluff would not hold long with another blunder from his ally, especially considering all the old lines heirs in Slytherin this year.

As he paid the appropriate amount of outside attention to Potter's awed tales of Diagon Alley, he surveyed the first-year students at their table.

The most noticeable had to be the Malfoy heir, with platinum hair and careful mannerisms that were accentuated by the rather lousy table manners of two heavy-set boys sitting at his sides. They were currently discussing with a Nott, if Blaise remembered the Sorting correctly. Next to him, sat a girl with an unfortunate combination of flat nose and square jaw, that Blaise associated with the Bulstrode line. Mother was on friendly terms with their patriarch, so the girl was a potential ally.

The other first-year girls had all gathered like a pack of hounds, though – and it was interesting to note – two of them were being politely but overtly ignored by the five others, among whom Blaise recognized Parkinson, Dew and Greengrass, to whom he had been introduced last winter.

He surveyed the table and, yes, two small boys facing each other and consorting quietly. He could not remember their names, but he would bet that they were half-bloods, just by how the elder students around the pair were carefully acting as if the two did not exist.

The headmaster's announcements of fates worse than death awaiting students in the 3rd floor corridor was… baffling, to say the least, but the unbothered reactions of the older Slytherins told Blaise that was on par for the course with the rumored crazy old man, so he did not worry much.

Eventually, the meal came to an end, and the prefects gathered their house's scattered first years to lead them to their common room.

Theirs was in the dungeons, with black leather couches, green tapestries lined with silver, and windows opening to the bottom of the Black Lake. The older years were already heading for narrow hallways half-hidden here and there across the room. Zabini took it all in as they were herded by their six prefects to the center of the room, near an imposing fireplace.

Once they had settled down, a dark-haired teen stepped forward.

"Welcome to Slytherin," he said softly. "I am Roy Henwood, and this," he gestured to a spindly blonde with glasses, "is Gemma Farley. We are the fifth-year Slytherin prefects. If you have questions, you ask us. Curfew is at twenty. Past that time, you are expected to be in the common room. Breakfast starts at seven, and classes at eight. On this board," He pointed to a silver-rimmed panel with neatly pinned parchments, "is a map of the school, with the most commonly used secret passages and shortcuts. Take note that the moving stairs will rotate clockwise when the moon is in its waxing phase, and counter-clockwise when it is waning. Shortcuts traced in green are only open during specific days of the week, passages in red are one-way use only. For instance, the west wing's bronze ladder between the first and fourth floor can only be climbed upwards. Any attempt to climb downwards from the fourth floor will get you a bath in the Black Lake if it is a week day." Henwood paused and smirked. "Please do not attempt to find out first hand where it will drop you on a weekend. We have Gryffindors for that." That caused a few nervous chuckles. "Anyway. The map can be copied with a simple _duplicatus_. It should be in your first-year charms textbook. If you have trouble with it, ask an older student for advice or come to us. Do not be late to class. The teachers will only be lenient for the first week, and you do not want to take bad habits."

Henwood glanced at the blonde girl – Farley – and she stepped up.

"In short," she stated with a smile, "No lateness, no lurking outside after curfew, and the use magic in the hallways is… forbidden. I would tell you to follow the rules, but this is not Hufflepuff." There were a few snickers. She grinned. "So, when you inevitably end up sneaking around and casting spells, do not get caught. We are Slytherin. We do not blunder about. And if you _do_ get caught, hope it is by Professor Snape, because he will assign you a detention and that will be it. Anyone else… well. It would be shameful. And we are your family, now. You do not bring shame to your family."

She nodded to Henwood who took over:

"Farley said it. We are a family. We are a fraternity. It does not matter whatever rivalries there are between these walls. When we are out of the common room, we are Slytherins, and we present a united front. If you see a fellow Slytherin in trouble, you help them. I do not care if that help is finding a teacher, causing a distraction or hexing a bully. What matters is that you help. Because when _you_ are in trouble, you can be assured that the whole House will be behind you."

"Now you have a long day tomorrow," Farley said and pointed to her left at a narrow hallway half-covered by a tapestry. "The first-year rooms are at the end of this corridor. Two students to a room. Your names will be on the doors, your trunks at the bottom of your beds. Good night."

With that, the prefects left for their own hallway – concealed behind a sliding wall mirror – and the first-years were left looking dubiously at the tapestry shadowing the narrow corridor to their rooms. Oblivious to everyone's hesitation, Potter stepped in first, and Blaise had no choice but to follow as if nothing was wrong.

The hallway led to a round antechamber, with two tables and a dozen chairs. There were nine doors spaced evenly on the walls, with names engraved in silver on the wood. Blaise took a few steps along the right wall, reading the names – ' _Bulstrode, Davis_ ', then ' _Dew, Gilbert_ ', ' _Greengrass, Parkinson_ ' and ' _Perry, Rook_ ' – until he reached the door facing the hallway ' _Potter, Zabini_ '.

He stopped.

Well.

Either he was very lucky, or the castle itself was on his side. Turning back to Potter, who was looking at some carvings on the wall, he gestured to their door.

"Looks like we are rooming together, Harry."

"That's great!" the boy replied, almost bouncing with joy. "Let's get inside!"

The other first-years started milling around the antechamber, looking for their doors, and Blaise quickly glanced at the door left of theirs: ' _Nott, Pale_ ', then at the others which read ' _Malfoy_ ' (how did the prat get himself a single room?) – ' _Hawke, Leverton_ ' (he had no idea who those were; he really should have paid attention during the Sorting) and ' _Crabbe, Goyle_ ' (Heh.). It seemed that the left side of the room held the boys' doors, and the right side, the girls'.

Satisfied with his observations, he followed Potter into their room and found a narrow space with a small fireplace embedded in the far wall, and two beds lining the walls. Potter was sitting on the right-side bed, happily bouncing on the mattress and looking around the rather tiny room.

Blaise moved to sit on the left bed, when something scaly caught his eye at the feet of Potter's bed.

He froze.

Scales and claws and _teeth_.

"Potter," he squeaked, "why is there a mimic in our room?"

"What's a mimic?"

"That thing!" he shrieked, pointing at the thing and making some distance between him and it.

"Oh, you mean Chomp? He's my trunk."

He stopped trying to phase through the wall and glanced at Potter with incredulity.

"Your… trunk."

"Yes, I bought him in Diagon Alley, remember? I told you about it during the feast."

Blaise eyed the monstrous chest with its stubby clawed legs and white, sharp, finger-long teeth. The thing did not have eyes, but Blaise was pretty sure that it stared back. Then the lid raised an inch and a thin red tongue darted out, giving the distinct impression of a monster licking its chops.

 _Eeep._

"Don't worry," Potter said, "he won't hurt you."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I told him not to hurt my friends."

 _Oh._

Blaise looked at Potter, not really sure how to reply to the candid statement.

 _That's not how it works,_ he wanted to say. _You barely know me. We aren't friends._

But Potter was smiling openly, and it was such a Hufflepuff thing to say – he was going to be eaten alive by the other snakes – and Blaise could not find it in himself to spurn that trust.

"Yeah," he breathed. "We're friends."

He forced himself to relax. Whether this move would succeed or fail depended on Potter's understanding of Slytherin's subtleties. Blaise had the time to explain a few basics before they got to sleep, but he knew he could not work miracles. At the very least, Potter's ignorance would make the game interesting.

But one thing was for certain.

Harry had the potential to be be a valuable friend.

Ω

 **And here we are, lads! Chapter five! Took some time to complete, because I kept being distracted by writing chapters for** ** _Remus_** **, but your patience has been rewarded.**

 **For anyone who wonders, Chomp is not a mimic. But Blaise doesn't know that.**

 **Hope you enjoyed and, as usual, don't hesitate to leave a comment, they're great motivation to write.**

 **Sincerely,**

 **Claywind**


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